


Red Sky

by thinkpink20



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul never knows what will greet him at the door when he wanders round to Gambier Terrace...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Sky

Paul never knows what will greet him at the door when he wanders round to Gambier Terrace. Sometimes it's Rod, paintbrush dangling between his fingers and a deep-set frown on his face saying, "They're in the back room," or sometimes it's Ducky, usual warm smile on her face and top cut low enough to cause Paul to lose his train of thought for just a second.

But most of the time it's John, pissed as a newt. Paul knows simply from the way he opens the door whether John is drunk or not; a slow, airy scrape back of the wood if he's sober and a harsh, accusatory pull on the door handle if he's had a few. He always feels like some unwanted debt collector, the way John looks at him as if to say, "And what the fuck do you want?" 

But the glare softens slightly as John's poor, broken eyes focus and inform him who it is.

"Pauline," he sometimes says, putting on a funny voice and bowing low as though he's some bastardised Jeeves character. Then always wobbling from the drunken dizziness as he stands upright again. "I hope you've brought ciggies," in his normal, familiar drawl. Always on the scrounge since he left the financial stability of Mendips.

Though he's no stranger to living like a pig (he, Jim and Mike give it a fairly good go without a woman around the house in years), the flat shocks even Paul, no matter how many times he goes there. In John and Stu's room the floor makes you glad you're wearing shoes and there is an all-pervading stink of acrylic paint that floods the flat, harsh and sharp so that it takes the length of the bus ride home before his sense of smell has come right again. John smells of it all the time now too, tinging the fragrance for Paul from dislike to an odd sort of fondness.

The other thing is that they never have any teabags. Well, the girls do, but they hide them in various places all over the house so before Paul can attempt to sober John up a little bit with a cuppa, he has to go on a treasure hunt. Sometimes (if he's not _too_ far gone) John will help him, always prevaricating a few minutes before saying, "Maybe they've hid them in their knicker drawers..." and using it as an excuse to look through the girl's underwear. Which amuses Paul far more than he'd ever like to admit.

On these days when John is drunk and Paul has to try and sober him, his favourite game they play is John lying prone on the sofa in the tiny communal living room calling out possible teabag hiding places. "Behind the cistern!" And Paul will have to risk the shared bathroom before ducking back out of the mess again.

"No."

"In the shoes, on the rack behind the door."

Two pairs of well worn court shoes, boots that may or may not be John's, a stray, long lost comb that Paul vaguely remembers seeing Cynthia with once and a pair of much smaller boots - Stu's.

The difference between Stu's things and John's things is starkly obvious. But still they're always mixed in together. Paul finds his stomach curling unpleasantly at that.

"No."

"Don't know then - just have water, you great twat."

Paul sighs, putting the shoes back straight (not Stu's), as though _he's_ the one that needs the tea. As though anyone in their right mind and with even the mildest regard for their own health would come _here_ for a drink if they weren't trying to sober up John bloody Lennon.

He decides not to bite at that one; just mutters something rude under his breath then says, "No, try again, John - where were they last time?"

There is silence from the living room and Paul can imagine him lying there, frowning with thought, his nose wrinkling up slightly as he ponders, eyes clear and serious. He almost goes in there just to look at it, just to catch the moment of perfection and beauty and _John._

"Under Rod's bed."

"Right," Paul says, and tramps through into Rod's room, though he knows the girls wouldn't be stupid enough to hide them there again, not in a million years. 

Thankfully the scattering of objects in there is more corralled, and Paul is grateful because even a quick glance under the bed shows him he was right. "No!"

"Um... Stu's painting case?"

John's voice is getting lazier, but Paul doesn't think much of it. He goes through into the barn-like room at the back of the house that belongs to John and Stu and immediately that smell, the one he associates with John, heightens his senses. There is litter all over the floor, used guitar string packets, fibers of paint brushes been cut and moulded for use, stray lumps of clay that were once meant to be someone's great end of term project. And near the bed, an opened packet of condoms.

Paul quickly looks away, although why the fuck he's embarrassed, he isn't sure. They're only condoms, after all, and they're all grown ups in this house, been using the things for bloody years. But he knows John and Cynthia don't bother with them, and that Stu isn't seeing anyone very much at the moment...

He wonders why they're there, right between the mattresses on the floor. It implies something, but Paul doesn't want to think about that - _can't_ think about that or he'll go mad. 

The painting case holds nothing but (unsurprisingly) paint, but he does find a small packet of teabags in John's wardrobe, on the floor. Either the girls know this is the last place the forever disordered John would go or they're taking the hiding in plain sight route, relying on their flatmate's piss-poor eyesight.

He picks them up and is reading the back as he goes through to the living room. "They were hiding them in your wardrobe; maybe in future you might want to check there before sending me on a wild - "

Paul stops because his voice dies in his throat. This is why John was sounding odd earlier, this is why he's been so quiet for the past few minutes instead of his usual annoying, niggling self. "Jesus, John," Paul says.

He's got his hand down his jeans. Or, more precisely, _in_ his jeans, where they've been opened at the button and the zip. And that hand - that hand is very clearly busy. "Fucking hell, stop will you?" Paul says, his voice too high and too shrill and pretends to look away whilst - not. He raises his hand to his eyes, but it's about as half-hearted as it can be.

"What're you," John asks, "a prude? Fuck off, Paul."

"I'm - I've found you tea."

It's absurd, the situation, the atmosphere, the fact that Paul is mentioning _the tea,_ but thankfully John's hand stills inside his pants. And Paul feels the first crackles of sensation in his own jeans. "I'm not interested in fucking tea," John states. "I'm randy."

"No," Paul reasons, and wonders why he's doing it. "You're pissed."

"Well, I can't be _that_ pissed, can I?" John asks, then gestures with his free hand to his groin. As though Paul's suddenly frazzled brain needs any encouragement to think about that. 

"Get your hand out of your jeans and let's have some tea," Paul suggests, waving the packet childishly as though this will diffuse the sudden sexual atmosphere, the way everything becomes dirty with John if he hangs about it long enough.

"Why don't you just forget the tea and join me?"

Paul is already blushing red and his voice cracking in his throat as he goes to speak when he realises what John probably means. "What?"

"Those wanking sessions we used to have, in the front room at - "

"We were lads," Paul hears himself say, then silence eats up the atmosphere again as it becomes obvious to him that he sounds pretty angry, pretty sharp. Pretty disappointed. But either John has noticed and doesn't care or isn't listening properly. Either way, the hand inside his jeans is moving again, stroking slow and lazy and Paul can't seem to drag his eyes away for a few seconds before they're fluttering back, seemingly entranced.

"So? Still lads, aren't we?"

Paul quietly wants to say, 'That's half of the problem, isn't it?' but knows that John wouldn't understand that - either doesn't know or doesn't want to know, the way so many things are with John; you can never be sure if he's avoiding a problem simply because he's being pig-headed or because he's just stupidly oblivious. Paul suspects he knows a lot more than he lets on about. Has to, he's too clever not too. That brain is too razor-sharp to miss anything, least of all something sexual.

"Why d'you want me to join you?" Paul asks, and knows he's pushing it. He wants something he's never going to get, some whispered entreaty. And in the silence that follows he tries to find one in John's eyes but just finds that usual myopic squint, clouded over slightly with drink.

"Bloody hell!" John complains, "It's just a wank, do I have to have a fucking reason? Stop being a square, Paul - sit down."

A beat passes before - "What if someone comes home? Walks in and catches us?"

"They won't," John says, his tone already distracted, mind already elsewhere as Paul watches that hand shift, tugging at himself so precisely and carefully and - Paul swallows hard, feels his dick twitch with interest.

"Let's go to your room."

For a second he can't believe he's said it, is waiting for John's scathing reply about not being so queer but then - "Fucking hell, alright."

He unfolds himself from the sofa, all lean limbs and sharp angles; he's wearing a high neck black jumper and Paul can see the muscles in his arms at the top, defined by the slight pattern of the wool. He just watches as John stands, pulls his hand from his jeans (though there's still clearly tenting in the worn old shorts he's wearing, Paul tries not to look) and then stands there, scratching the back of his hair idly. "You coming, then?"

The packet of tea (earlier so desired) is flung carelessly on the sofa as Paul follows John through to the back bedroom, where the window that has been left open has filled the cool of the rest of the house with the summer heat from outside. The curtain flaps gently in the breeze but it's still notably warmer in here than it was in the living room and as Paul shuts the door he watches John casually lift the edges of his jumper, pull it up over his head.

"Warm in 'ere," he says, but Paul can tell it's simply to himself so he doesn't break the silence by replying, tries to avoid looking at the pale expanse of John's chest, flawless and pure in the sunshine filtering in through the grubby windows. 

His heart is beating overly fast in his chest and he feels that mix of apprehension and excitement that thrums through his veins like he's on fire.

They both arrange themselves on John's mattress (Paul's eyes don't once again go to the condom packet, don't stray to Stuart's bed) lying on their backs, gazing at the ceiling. 

"Right, who's starting?" Paul asks, embarrassed, but it's clear John has already started, hand comfortably slipping below the waistband of his underwear again. "Um, Marilyn Monroe?"

The sound of his heavy exhale showing how uneven his breathing already is, John says in a rush, "None of that stupid calling out names stuff."

Which confuses Paul, because if they're not doing that then they're _really_ just wanking in the same room, on the same bed, and he really doesn't know what that means. Their old games, yes, but this, no. Confused, he glances sideways at John, about to say something but the words just die in his throat.

John has his eyes shut, mouth fallen open slightly and Paul can hear him panting. The removal of his jumper means that the delicate tightening of muscles in his arm are there for all to see and Paul feels his mouth water as he watches, fingers going down to his jeans and twitching open his buttons of their own accord. He flicks the zip open on his fly then pushes the denim down slightly, around the tops of his thighs.

He turns his body slightly, so that he's almost - but not quite - lying on his side and prays quietly that John won't open his eyes and catch him watching. Fingers freeing his own dick which is already half hard, Paul squeezes himself and then shuts his eyes tight, rationing himself glances at the sight in front of him. He won't think of it, he tells himself, though it's a flimsy lie really, one that doesn't even cover over his thoughts for a second before his eyes are flickering open again, taking in the image of John palming himself almost teasingly, as though he's interested in making this one last. Paul knows that feeling, gets a kick of sympathy pleasure between his own thighs and tightens his fingers again.

"Fuck," John hisses, and Paul's eyes flash open to find that he still has his closed, apparently talking to no one. "Why am I always so _fucking_ randy all the time?"

He sounds pissed off about it, disgruntled at the same time as unable to do anything but enjoy the feeling of his hand on his dick, and Paul wonders if he should say anything, wonders if in John's half-drunk brain he even still remembers there's someone else here. He opts in the end for staying silent, simultaneously unwilling to break the atmosphere and to stop John talking if he wants to; the sound is going straight to Paul's stomach, hardening him more by the second. He watches as John seems to get more and more frustrated with himself, with _something,_ at least, then eventually he grunts with frustration (the noise making Paul flush with heat) and turns on his side.

When John opens his eyes, they spend the smallest of seconds - but also the most potent - looking at each other. Paul shifts until he's lying fully on his side too, shamelessly trying to give John the best view he can, which seems to be appreciated if the low, unconscious groan is anything to go by. 

Apart from the fact it's been ages since they've done this in the same room, they've certainly never done it _looking_ at each other before, eyes locking in a way Paul knows would be uncomfortable with anyone else but is merely a further turn-on with John; the familiar in an unfamiliar setting, the one thing you think you're not allowed to think of suddenly happening. 

And because of that, Paul inches closer to John's body, so close that when he moves his hand the back of their knuckles brush against each other. And John seems to be grateful for that too, the quietest of noises escaping his throat as his leg reaches out, pressing against Paul's even though they're separated by two _annoying_ layers of denim.

Paul feels like he's on fire now; wishes he'd had the sense to remove his own shirt like John but it's too late now, he'll just have to put up with the heat of the room and the constant flushes his body is sending out. He can feel his skin itching to reach out and touch; the fingers wrapped around himself even stop, hesitant to move because really they want to be somewhere else, touching John, replacing the hand that Paul still can't see completely because most of it is hidden by the plain cotton of unfamiliar boxer shorts.

He wants... he wants to take over. He wants to do that job for him. And there is a war going on in Paul's mind about whether to or not, the devil telling him that they're less than inches away, that it would be the easiest thing in the world and the angel reminding him that John doesn't _think_ that way about him; might for now, might for the next five minutes but...

In the end, as always, the devil wins out. Paul swallows hard with fear and then lets go of himself, reaches out for the waistband of John's jeans and pushes them down as far as he can. Eyes shut tight, John lets him, doesn't even flinch when Paul's hands trail delicately up over the tops of his thighs, tracing the cool skin and making his hips arch obviously into the touch of unfamiliar skin.

The fact he hasn't been pushed away yet (though he still has a ball of fear in his chest about what he's doing) enables Paul to slip his hand down over John's, momentarily surprised by the feel of touching a dick that isn't his own in this way but not letting it show. Eventually John opens his eyes, lets go of himself and grabs Paul the way Paul has him and just like that, like it was meant to happen, they're touching each other instead of themselves.

Paul groans, unable to stop himself, possibly just from relief. Relief of thinking about it for so long and now finally doing it, relief that John didn't push him away. But also relief from the almost insignificant thought that flickers through his mind that if John is doing this so willingly with him, he can't possibly be doing it with Stuart too. 

Can he?

John's hand on him starts to falter and Paul feels the body against him tensing. He knows those signs, can almost feel the rush of feelings from from being so close to him and Paul physically has to stop himself from closing the tiny gap between them and kissing the wet, open mouth before him. He tries to twist his wrist just the way he knows he likes himself and it's awkward at this angle but John seems to get it anyway, grunts out something that Paul doesn't catch and then is coming, staining the dark sheets underneath them. It's the hottest thing Paul thinks he's ever seen and he can almost feel himself sweat, wishes that John's hand hadn't stalled against him out of distraction.

Paul gives him a second, watches with rapt fascination at John's chest heaves, trying to catch his breath and takes in his eyes, still closed from the bursts of pleasure a few moments earlier and eyelashes (long, something oddly female on John, who is usually _everything_ but) flickering against his cheeks. But then the ache in his balls reminds him that a few seconds before he'd been painfully close himself, that he didn't need much more attention, just a little, just the right flick of John's wrist and he'd be finished too.

Tinged with frustration, Paul wraps his own hand over John's and starts to tug, hoping John will get the message and, if not, just desperate for some friction on his over-sensitised skin. He wants to whisper, 'Please, please,' but before he gets the chance, John is rousing himself awake, grasping Paul tightly, roughly and making him catch his breath with the twist of his fingers.

It's harsh and fast and the sensation is so strong Paul hardly realises what is happening before he's coming hard, can practically feel his legs shaking where they're pressed against John and suddenly he's embarrassed, about the mess he's making, about the name he knows escaped his lips. He feels like a whirlwind hit him, lying there on the mattress like he wants to sink into it, just stay there forever if he gets the chance.

A moment passes and it's blissfully silent until - "What time is it?" John coughs. He sounds like he's just woken up from some epic sleep, his voice raw and confused. 

Paul checks his watch. "Ah... half five."

"Th'others should be home soon," John states, rubbing his eyes and slipping his hand up into his hair, disturbing the style that was hardly immaculate in the first place. 

If Paul is wondering whether to mention something, make some note of what's just happened then the idea is fully squashed when John glances over at him, squints even though they're close enough really and says, "Did you say you were making tea, then?"

Which is how Paul ends up in the tiny kitchen, dumping used teabags in the bin and adding sugar to the cups just as the noise of voices and laughter and feet spill through the main door of the flat. He tries to lose his uncomfortable, confused embarrassment as he goes through to the living room with cups.

" - well, some of us actually bother to turn up for classes," Rod is saying, and Paul looks up just in time to see John throw a book across the room at his housemate, which raises a smile from everyone including Rod.

"What have you two been doing then?" Ducky asks, walking around Stu and smacking John's feet until he lifts them off the sofa and allows her to sit down. Paul is putting the cups down on the table when the sound of John's voice and his words turn him instantly red with embarrassment.

"We've been having a wanking session, haven't we, Paul?"

The worst thing is that no one laughs. Because apparently everyone has lived with John long enough now not to laugh at every single one of his 'jokes'. Ducky shakes her head ruefully, a slight smile on her face and over by the fireplace arranging some new canvas he brought home, Rod is just grinning. Paul purposefully doesn't look at Stu, but he does look at the door, already mentally calculating a way out.

Then the sound of John's harsh, barking laugh shatters the weird silence in the room. "Embarrassed, Paul?"

"Fuck off, John."

Another laugh and then - "Nothing to be ashamed of, is there? Me and Stu do it all the time, don't we Stu?"

He wishes he could look somewhere else, but for some reason Paul's eyes are drawn to Stuart, stomach dropping as he discovers there the same embarrassed, red flush he has on his own face. In the second that their eyes meet, Paul thinks it's the first time they've ever felt any connection in their entire lives.

"Right, I'd better get off, it's getting late," Paul says, wiping his hands on his jeans as though he's trying to get rid of something embarrassing on his skin. "See you lot later."

He's out of the door before anyone can answer him, slamming the door with satisfying loudness behind him and then walking away down the street, Georgian style pillars flashing past him as he seems to move in a blur. His mind is reeling, crashing between feelings until - 

"Paul! Wait, for God's bloody sake."

He's not sure why he stops, but he does. Probably just because it's John. And because apparently he will do anything for John, though he had no idea of that until now.

"Christ, you're going to be weird about it then, are you?"

When he turns around and watches John walk the final few yards between them, he realises the other has his jumper on inside out. In an act of defiance, Paul decides not to tell him. "I'm late for putting dad's tea on," he says.

"Course you are," John sighs. "Apart from the fact Mike does it every Monday, regimented and like clockwork for the last four bloody years."

"Piss off."

Nothing left to say, Paul looks away over to the unfinished Cathedral over the road, looking blank and bombed, like some wreck left over from the war rather than something new and promising. The sky behind it is blood red, stretching right down to the docks and over the Mersey.

"Why're you being weird?"

"I'm not being weird."

"Fine then," John sighs, "I haven't got time for this - piss off, Paul." And he's turning away, going back to the house as though it's _Paul_ causing all the trouble, shoulders dropped as though it's _everyone else_ and never him. 

"Stop showing me up in front of fucking Stu!" Paul shouts, suddenly horrified by the sight of John's retreating back. Leaving him.

And just like he knew it would, this makes John turn; his expression is coarse and hard-faced. "You wanna get a pair of tits, Paul; you're practically a woman."

There's a moment of silence whilst they both just stare at each other, the eyes Paul has just been looking into with want now staring back at him with scorn. Then John steps closer, close enough for it to look strange in the street, like something is starting - love or war, one of the two - and his voice is as cold as his eyes when he speaks. "It was just a wank, _mate,"_ making the term sound like an insult instead of an endearment. "Get over it, alright?"

This time when he turns to go against the red sky in the distance, Paul doesn't call him back.


End file.
